


one part trust, three parts betrayal (just add fire)

by wonderfool (foolmetal)



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Evan "Buck" Buckley-centric, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Protective Siblings, Speculation, Spoilers, don't mind me just sliding in my theory before the doors close
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29162562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolmetal/pseuds/wonderfool
Summary: Buck's parents are in town. It all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Maddie Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Maddie Buckley/Howie "Chimney" Han
Comments: 39
Kudos: 724
Collections: 9-1-1 Tales





	1. The Lie

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes, the inspiration hits, and you write almost 7k in span of two days. i don't make the rules.
> 
> obviously HUGE spoilers for everything that has aired in season 4 so far, as well as spoilers and speculation from all promos and press releases for episodes 4x04 and 4x05. this being said, proceed with caution.

His parents were coming to town.

That’s what Buck kept telling them - his friends, his captain, anyone who was around to witness the doors he slammed too hard, the way he kept finding his fists at his sides, clenched too tightly. _My parents are flying in from Pennsylvania._

With the exception of his therapist, he’s never told anyone the details of their fraught relationship. He’s alluded to it, sure, and the discussions it came up in never required any explanation. He’s used the same tired line that Maddie taught him long ago.

 _They’re not bad people, just bad parents_.

Because it’s the best way to explain why he never travels home for the holidays. Why he’s only seen his parents once in the last five years, can count the number of times he’s spoken to them over the phone in that same time period on two hands

His mom sends him a card in the mail on his birthday and an email if she needs anything else. Now that both of their children are out of the house, done causing problems that require parental intervention, there’s not much more they could ask for.

Buck isn’t upset about it anymore. The distance has afforded him that luxury - to think of their last big fight and the silence that followed as something that happened long ago, in an older world, to a younger man. 

This trip puts all that in jeopardy.

“It’ll be okay, Buck,” Maddie says. There’s a box of photographs and three glasses of sparkling cider spread out between them. Chimney’s in the kitchen, building an elaborate ice cream sundae using god knows whatever toppings Maddie’s craving. “They’re here to poke around in my business this time, not yours.”

“And you think I’m just gonna get away with a pat on the back from the old man? Oh, _hey_ , look at this one.”

He holds out a picture of the two of them. Maddie, age twelve, stomach down on a speeding toboggan. Buck, age four, sitting on her back, fingers clenched tightly into the pink yarn of her hat. 

Maddie leans into him fondly and laughs. “Pretty sure you made me eat snow on that ride.”

“But look,” he says, flipping to the next one in the stack. “I tried to make it up to you.”

In the photo, Maddie is kneeling on the ground, hat noticeably missing, just a pink lump buried ten yards back in the snow. Her cheeks are red and raw, hair damp around her face. She’s trying to look angry but can’t quite pull it off. Buck’s little arms are wrapped around her neck, his lips pressed above her right eyebrow.

“Aw,” Maddie sniffs, at the stage now where she can blame every show of emotion on hormones. “You were _such_ a sweet kid.”

Chimney rounds the couch with a bowl of vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, potato chips, and...raisins? He presses it into Maddie’s waiting hands and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “What did I miss? Are you crying?”

“ _No_ ,” Maddie denies, mouth full of ice cream. “Too busy eating.” A dribble of chocolate winds up on her chin, but Buck can see the hearts in Chim’s eyes as he hands her a napkin. He politely turns his head and mock-gags when Chim leans in for a kiss. Maddie motions to the photos, and Buck leans over so Chimney can see. 

“ _Baby_ Evan Buckley! I hate to say it, but you were kind of adorable.”

“I could never stay mad at him,” says Maddie. “He was the cutest kid.”

“What happened?” Chimney jokes, and Buck swats at him until Maddie makes the most of her pregnant build to break them apart.

“We did everything together back then,” she says. “He thought I was the coolest.”

“Still do,” Buck grins.

“There’s no bigger ego boost than having a younger sibling who looks at you like you’re a genius because you know how to tie their shoes.”

“She taught me how to ride a bike,” Buck says. “And how to swim.”

“He followed me everywhere. I thought I’d have to set up a cot for him in my freshman dorm room,” Maddie groans, but it’s full of affection. “And then, years later, I followed him here.”

“And look at us now,” Buck glances down at the photo in his hand, then to the sister at his side. He kisses her temple in mirror image and lets out a grateful sigh because, of all the people he spent time with in childhood, this is the relationship that mattered most to him, and this is the one that survived.

“Best brother ever,” Maddie says. “Still the cutest. Unless you make me spill my ice cream.”

“Okay, okay,” Buck laughs. “You know, Chim, this means you’ll have to have another one.”

Chimney carefully sets his glass down after nearly spitting out a mouthful of cider. “I’m sorry, why’s that?”

“Every kid needs a sibling,” Buck shrugs. “It’s a fact.”

“Excuse me, I was an only child.”

“Untrue. You have Albert.”

Chimney snorts. “Not really helping your case here, Buck.”

“You love Albert deep down, don’t deny it.” Chimney makes a face. “Deep _deep_ down. But listen, Hen and Karen have Denny and Nia. Bobby and Athena have May and Harry.”

“Eddie only has one kid.”

Buck feels his face flush, but he doesn’t know why. “Eddie has time. He could meet someone.” He tries to distract himself with the photos in his hands and pauses when his eyes catch on a woman he doesn’t recognize.

“I’m going to stop you both right there,” Maddie says. “At least let me get through having this baby first.”

Buck knows that sometimes, pictures have sounds. One memory will spark another. The brain, in its tangled web of neurons and synapses, will process the image of an ice cream truck or the startup logo of your favorite gaming console and evoke the appropriate auditory response. Buck will catch the tail-end of a news story about reopening the pier, and for a moment, all he can hear is the roar of the ocean, the slap that was made when water hit wood, boards buckling. Christopher yelling his name over and over. _Buck! Buck! Buck!_

A woman sits in a recliner, legs propped up on the footrest. She holds a baby, a tiny thing with the first wisps of blond hair sticking straight up. For Buck, this photo doesn’t have a sound, but it does have a _smell_. Something like cigarette smoke, clove, and mint leaf. He swears he can recall the feeling of that chair, its plush brown fabric beneath his fingers, running them back and forth, drawing patterns in the fibers. 

“Hey, Maddie. Who is this?”

Maddie looks over and her eyes widen, ever so little. She makes a noise and chokes around the spoon in her mouth, sets her bowl down on the coffee table with a clatter. Chimney pats her on the back as she coughs once, twice. 

“Brain freeze?” Buck asks, feeling the nerves prickle strangely behind his neck, down his shoulders, beneath his shirt. 

“Just went down the wrong way. Uh, think I choked on a raisin. I-I’m fine,” Maddie says, none too convincingly. “That’s our Aunt Debra.”

“Oh,” he says, squinting down at the photo a little harder, trying the name out in his head. “I don’t think I remember her.”

Maddie swallows again, eyes fixed on the stretch of fabric across her stomach. “Well, she died when you were three, so…that makes sense.”

“Huh.” Now that Maddie mentions it, Buck does remember learning that his mom had a younger sister. They never talked about her much. It must have been hard to lose a sibling at that age. “Is that me she’s holding?”

Maddie’s shoulders are hunched, in that closed off way she used to get when she was talking about Doug, or trying to avoid talking about Doug. She’s quiet, and Chimney is staring over at Buck, looking for answers that Buck doesn’t have. 

“Yep. Yep, that’s you,” she finally says, distant. “Sorry, I don’t think the baby likes the ice cream tonight. And it’s getting late. We should probably wrap things up.”

Buck checks his phone. It’s 8:15. “Are you sure?” he asks, unsure himself. “I...I can stay. If you want.”

“No, no. I’m fine, really. Just need to lie down for a bit. It’ll be a long day tomorrow. Mom and Dad get in at 9.”

That’s enough to put anyone on edge, Buck reasons. “I’ve got the short shift tomorrow. We’re still on for dinner.”

“Can’t wait,” Maddie squeezes out, with false enthusiasm, and Buck winces in sympathy. While Maddie didn’t clash with their parents as openly and vocally, Buck knows that the tension in their household got to her. Their home was never a place she felt she could turn for support when things got stressful in nursing school, or later, in her marriage. 

But Maddie was the one who reached out to them again. Maddie was the one who thought they deserved to know she was having a baby, that just because Phillip and Margaret Buckley lacked the temperament and unconditional love their children needed growing up doesn’t mean they shouldn’t get the chance to try again as grandparents.

They’re not here for Buck, he reminds himself. He has nothing to prove. 

* * *

“So you’ve been seeing a therapist?”

Therapy is possibly the last topic Buck wants to discuss with his father. Work hard, be responsible, show respect. These were the most important values instilled in him at a young age. Nowhere on that list was ‘be vulnerable’ or ‘talk about your feelings.’ 

Buck thinks his dad was probably similar to Eddie’s in that way. Revelation of emotions made you weak. Why reflect on how you were feeling, when you could just bottle it up, lace up your big boy boots, and get the job done?

And Buck, he felt things _too much_ and too often. Love and sorrow, abandonment and blistering rage. He moved through the world propelled by feeling, starting and dropping careers at the drop of hat. Dipping in and out of relationships that balanced low on the scale of meaningless to meaningful. _This makes me feel good_. Until it didn’t. Then onto the next thing. _This makes me feel valued._

Buck 1.0 was impulse personified, for better or worse. He worked with a single-minded focus, so long as it was something he wanted, in the moment. And those moments could last a long time - months, years even - but as soon as another thought crossed his mind, there was little he could do to shake it. Become a Navy SEAL, become a firefighter, join the LAFD, move in with Abby. 

Even as Buck 2.0, new and improved, he still fell prey to his own compulsions. Filing that lawsuit. Making arrangements to reunite Red with his long lost love. Making promises to Abby that he didn’t know if he could keep. Buck never had a problem feeling things, he just never took the time to think them through, never learned to talk them over and make sense of the _why_ until now. 

It was going so well with Dr. Copeland. He didn’t want to share this one good thing with the one man who had the best chance of ruining it.

“Well,” Buck started, watching the wine swirl in his glass, searching for the right words. “The job can be stressful. We’re placed in a lot of dangerous situations. Sometimes, people get injured. Sometimes, not everyone makes it out. It’s healthy to process those emotions so they don’t interfere with the job.”

“Of course,” Margaret intones, demure as ever. She was always willing to perform support to a point, that point usually being her husband, or her own life and schedule.

“Howard, do you see a therapist?” Phillip asks, clearly testing the atmosphere and present company. _Is my son abnormal? Are you?_

Buck observes Chimney’s eyeballs ping-ponging around the room, first to Phillip, then Buck, then Maddie, then Albert, and back to Phillip.

“Not regularly,” he hedges. “I did have to see one for my psych evaluation, after my car accident. And after the stabbing.”

“Stabbing?” Margaret gasps. Chimney turns to look at Maddie so gradually, Buck would swear he was watching it in slow motion. Those in the room who do know what happened come to a quick realization, at varying levels of disbelief. _She never told them_.

“That’s right. It was awful, but it’s over now. I’m good as new. Haven’t seen a therapist since,” Chimney says, but whatever he sees written on Buck’s face leads him to course-correct. “I should start up again, especially with all that’s going on in the world. There was a period of time where I was terrified to come home, if it meant there was a chance I could catch something on the job and bring it home to Maddie and the baby. Buck has the right idea.”

Phillip sits back, frowns. “He always was...sensitive.”

Crickets. Buck listens to the sound of his own breathing and wonders how soon is too soon to make a graceful exit. Dinner, drinks. He’ll leave after dessert. 

He stands abruptly. “I made cake.”

Albert practically leaps from his seat. “I’ll get plates.”

Buck takes the tiramisu from the refrigerator and unwraps its plastic covering, as Albert digs around in the cabinet for plates.

“It is very uncomfortable out there,” Albert whispers.

“You think?” Buck hisses back. He cuts the dessert into a grid of even squares, grabs a pie server and six forks, which he hands to Albert. “I’ll grab the napkins.”

“I still do not see why I had to be here.”

“For Chimney,” says Buck. “For moral support.”

“Maybe I should go.”

“Don’t you dare. Dessert, then we both get to leave.”

When they return to the living room, Chimney is laughing, face stretched in surprise. Maddie looks decidedly less amused beside him.

Buck sets the tiramisu down, and begins serving up slices onto the plates that Albert passes him.

“Is that what I think it is?” Maddie asks.

“Non-alcoholic. _Decaf_ coffee,” Buck emphasizes, and Maddie sticks her tongue out, though it doesn’t disguise her excitement as she reaches for a slice. “But yes, tiramisu, your favorite.”

“What was so funny?” Albert asks, taking his seat with a forkful of the cake already raised to his mouth.

“Mrs. Buckley just asked if you and Buck were seeing each other,” Chimney chuckles, waggling his brows. Buck and Albert exchange looks of mutual distaste.

“I would never date, Buck,” Albert says with confidence. “No offense.”

“None...taken?” Buck is a little offended at how firmly Albert denied it, but he’ll let it slide. It’s weird enough that Chimney is dating his sister. “Albert is like a brother to me.”

“You do live together,” says Margaret.

“It’s supposed to be _temporary_. My couch can’t be that comfortable.”

“Then who are you dating now?” Phillip asks. He’s refused dessert, has never been into sweets.

“No one, Dad,” Buck says. His father gives a contemplative hum, the kind that always makes Buck feel like he gave the wrong answer.

They eat in silence for another minute, and Buck prays for the floor to swallow him whole. 

The mood has been off all night, even for them. As soon as he got here, Chimney kept shooting Buck guilty looks. It seemed like he and Maddie weren’t speaking, which Buck assumed had to do with something their parents said, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maddie was on edge, fingers braced protectively over her middle all through dinner and drinks. Their parents' condescension was almost a comfort in its normalcy.

“Did you really make this, Evan? It’s very good.”

“...thanks, Mom.”

“Buck’s really talented in the kitchen,” Chimney says, strangely generous with his compliments tonight. “He’s our captain’s culinary protégé.”

“Oh, is that what you both want to be? Fire captains?” Margaret asks. 

Buck finds himself clenching the stem of his wine glass like a lifeline, doesn’t even remember picking it back up. “Someday maybe. For now, I’m pretty content with the role that I’m in.”

“But it doesn’t pay much does it?” Phillip asks, money-motivated as always.

“I mean, I’m not a corporate attorney,” Buck says, unable to keep all of the poison from his voice, “and rent isn’t cheap in LA, but I do all right. It’s enough for me.”

“But someday, you might want to raise a family,” Margaret says, and Buck has a feeling her words are just as much for Chimney as they are for him. “You have to start thinking about the future and the best paths for advancement.”

“Not every captain gets to do what ours does,” Buck says. “Bobby still gets to come on calls with us, but it’s not always like that, depending on where you get placed. I’m more useful out in the world than stuck behind a desk.”

“We just want to see you make something of yourself, Evan.”

“I think your son and daughter turned out really great, Mrs. Buckley, Mr. Buckley,” Chimney interjects. “You both have a lot to be proud of. Yesterday night, we were looking at these old photos, and I have to say, if our baby turns out even half as cute as they were as kids, I’ll be one lucky dad.”

“Thanks, Chim,” Buck breathes, the tension in his stomach easing, if only a little. “But my money’s on twice as cute.”

“Old photos?” asks Margaret.

“Yeah, yeah. Really nice ones of all of you. Lots of pictures of Maddie as a baby, and her and Buck, and Buck’s mo-” Chimney freezes mid-sentence. At his side, Maddie goes completely still. “Mo-more wine. I’m going to grab another bottle of wine.”

Several things happen at once. Chimney stands up and all but runs from the room. Buck’s father begins buttoning up his cardigan. Maddie’s eyes fill with tears.

“Maddie,” Margaret says, voice high with alarm. “What does he know?”

“I-” Maddie says. “I-”

“Did you tell him?”

“Tell who what?” says Buck, and his mother looks over at him with an emotion he’s only seen cross her face once before. Fear. 

“We didn’t come here to have this conversation, Maddie,” Phillip says. “To dredge up things in the past that don’t matter. If you invited us into your home under false pretenses-”

“You _invited yourselves_ here,” Maddie cries. “Everything is about you. It’s always been about you.”

Just like that, the stem between Buck’s fingers snaps like a twig. Wine spills out, red like blood, drunk up by the rug under his feet. They all stare at the stain for a moment before Buck tries to stammer an apology.

“S-sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll get-”

“We’re going back to the hotel,” Phillip says, lending a hand to help his wife who’s still frozen in that terrible expression. When they get to the door, nobody tries to stop them. 

Albert bends over and starts to dab at the carpet, napkins in one hand, phone in the other, with his browser open to Google. “Baking soda,” he reads off. “Do you have baking soda? I will look.”

He and Chimney pass each other in the hall, both a little frantic.

“Maddie, I’m sorry,” Chimney says. No wine, his hands are empty. “I panicked. I didn’t mean to bring it up. You know I’m not good with secrets.”

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Buck clears his throat, but his voice comes out tight anyway, the twist of anxiety resumed deep in his gut. “Can somebody please tell me what’s going on?”

“It shouldn’t be me. I shouldn’t be the one who has to…” Her makeup is running, nose a little stuffy, the v-neck of her blouse dampened by the tears traveling down her neck. Buck’s heart aches for her, even as he wants to grab her by the shoulders and gently shake for answers.

“I love you, Maddie,” Chimney says slowly, patiently. “You’re right. It shouldn’t be you. But he deserves to know. You have to tell him.”

“Tell me what? Tell me _what?_ Maddie, what don’t I know?”

* * *

Eddie finds him the next day, throwing his fists into the bag, anger and aggression bleeding out of him with every hit. 

Buck doesn’t want to be here, and that’s saying something, for someone who loves the job more than his own life. He doesn’t want to be around Chimney right now, but he also doesn’t want to be sitting at home, banging his head against the wall. He doesn’t want to look at his phone and see that Maddie sent him thirty-four texts since last night, all unanswered. He doesn’t want to be anywhere, wants to evaporate, to cease existence until his parents are back across the country where they belong.

“Going a little hard there, don’t you think?”

Buck looks up at him through the sweat dripping into his eyes. He can barely hear over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Eddie is standing across from him, hand braced on a pillar, chin tilted upward, judging. _Assessing_. That’s a nicer word for it. In the end, Buck doesn’t answer, just continues with a few thrusts, grunting with satisfaction at the pain that sparks down his wrist. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here.”

“That makes two of us,” Buck grits, adjusting his footing. 

“It doesn’t take a detective to figure something happened at dinner last night. You and Chimney walk in here this morning like you can’t stand the sight of each other. Neither of you will say what’s going on. Chim’s pacing a hole in the floor upstairs, driving Hen up the wall. And you’re down here.” Eddie gestures to Buck and the bag. It’s self explanatory.

“It’s under control.” That’s a lie.

“Cap is worried. He’s going to start asking questions.”

“He can just blame it all on me like he always does,” Buck says, gasping when his arm buckles, shoulder grinding uncomfortably in its socket.

“Enough,” Eddie says, stepping forward. He clutches the punching bag to keep it from swinging back and hitting Buck in the face. “You know that’s not true.”

He does know. Bobby has been hard on him in the past, but it’s only because of how much he cares, how much he wants to see Buck succeed, so long as it’s not at the cost of his well-being. He’s been better about giving Buck the benefit of the doubt, that much Buck has earned.

“You and Chim have to clear up whatever’s going on before we get called out, otherwise, one of you is getting left behind.”

“And what do you suggest, huh?” Buck grabs the bag and pushes back. “That we work it out in the ring? _Mano a mano_ _?_ "

It might be a low blow, but Eddie just looks at him, breathes out once through his nose, and smiles. Indulgent, because he’s used to Buck’s attitude and self-aware enough to admit that he’s been in Buck’s shoes, not too long ago. 

“Is he really the one you want to take a swing at?”

 _No, that’s you_ , Buck thinks. _Always been you_. But he swallows down the impulse and says, “Chimney...isn’t the one that I’m upset with. Not really. He just got caught up in the middle of things. In fact, he was probably the only one fighting on my side. We talked plenty last night. I have nothing else to say to him right now.”

“Buck.”

“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” he admits. “I scheduled an emergency session with her tonight.”

If Eddie is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “Good,” he says. “That’s really good.”

“If Chim tells me to call Maddie back, I might lose my mind, so just...tell him not to, all right? If he can do that, we’ll be fine.”

Eddie lets go of the bag, reaches out to grab Buck’s shoulder instead. It’s gross, his shirt is soaked through with sweat, but Eddie doesn’t let go. He squeezes the muscle between his fingers, thumb digging into the joint, working it loose. Buck sighs, eyes closing involuntarily. 

“Sure, Buck. Whatever you need.”

The rest of the shift goes by without a hitch. Buck feels Chimney’s stare burning into him all day but is otherwise stable. Hen tries to distract them with cute videos of Nia singing the alphabet and continuously flubbing the _l-m-n-o-p_. Buck loves kids and can’t help but go soft, especially at the accompanying pride written all over Hen’s face. 

And Eddie never leaves his side. Buck isn’t sure if Eddie’s even aware of what he’s doing. He turns to the left, and Eddie’s handing him a hammer. Takes off his helmet to get some air, and Eddie’s offering him a towel. _You good_ _?_ Eddie asks, sometimes with words, sometimes with a lift of his eyebrows. Buck doesn’t know whether to be annoyed or endeared, but he’s probably a little of both.

It reminds him of the train derailment and Abby crashing so unexpectedly back into his life. How frustrated Eddie seemed to be with Buck for his recklessness, and yet, angry on his behalf. And that’s what friends do, right? They pretend to like the people you’re dating, then turn around and scorn them once they’ve broken your heart. 

Eddie doesn’t know the kind of person Abby is, didn’t get the chance to see how much of an effect she had on Buck, the standard she set for all of his subsequent romantic relationships. All Eddie knows is his loyalty to Buck, and that’s enough. Buck appreciates it. He appreciates it, even if he doesn’t understand it.

He rushes home at the end of their twelve-hour shift, ignoring everyone’s see-you-tomorrows, feeling like a bit of an asshole, but he does have a valid excuse - the appointment that Dr. Copeland so graciously set at 7:30 PM. 

They cover as much as they can in an hour. A lot of it is just Dr. Copeland validating Buck’s confusion, Buck’s anger. She encourages him to analyze everyone’s responses to the situation, to see things from their point of view without excusing their actions. “ _What would you tell your parents right now, if they were standing in front of you_ _?"_ she asks. 

They bump up his appointment schedule to once a week, instead of twice a month.

Albert is staying with Chimney and Maddie, silently agreeing to give Buck a wide berth. The apartment is empty, and while Buck is talking with Dr. Copeland, it’s a blessing. 

After, it’s a curse. It’s too quiet, and unless Buck is zonked out in bed, in a depressive coma, he doesn’t handle the quiet well. He drinks one beer, then two. Nothing on Netflix will hold his interest. He cracks open a third bottle and stares down at the photo he stole from Maddie’s apartment, closes his eyes and smells clove cigarettes. 

He thinks about so many moments in his childhood and adolescence. The way his parents treated him, and how he had to rationalize their attitudes in his developing brain, all while missing this vital piece of the puzzle. 

He pictures his father’s face when Buck came home drunk one night, at the age of fourteen, and everything that followed. He hears his parents’ hushed voices in the kitchen, talking about finance and IRAs. His father, “ _Retired by fifty-five. That was the plan_.” His mother’s response, “ _We didn’t have a choice._ ” He replays the last big fight they had, after Buck left the Navy SEALs, blowing away his last opportunity to make up for dropping out of college. 

He couldn’t explain the pressure of Hell Week in a way that made sense to his parents, couldn’t make them understand how Buck felt when he was asked to leave a teammate who was hypothermic and unconscious behind in the sand. Training or not, it wasn’t right. It wasn’t what he wanted to become, but to his parents, any of his compassion was overshadowed by his overwhelming failure.

Buck could never measure up, never prove himself to them. Because he was never theirs. 

He’s tipsy, not enough to give him anything more than a mild headache in the morning. Buck has to work tomorrow afternoon, a twenty-four hour shift, which he’s praying will slap some sense into him, get his head on straight. 

For now, it’s just him and his thoughts, relentless. He stumbles a little to the bathroom, takes an overdue shower. He wraps a towel around his waist, glares into the mirror, and doesn't like the man he sees. The fury is upon him so sudden and violent, he doesn’t have time to stop himself from punching the glass. There is no satisfaction in watching the shards of silver spill into the sink, the mosaic of his face and bloodied knuckles reflected in their jagged formation.

Buck has enough presence of mind to pick up the larger pieces and toss them in the trash. He retrieves his first aid kit from under the sink and takes tweezers to broken skin, plucking out the foreign objects, then rinsing until the water runs clean. He wraps them in messy gauze, all of the energy sapped from his body, and collapses on the couch. The sleep Buck gets isn’t exactly peaceful, but he doesn’t move again until his alarm goes off.

* * *

“What’s wrong with your hand?”

Buck vacuumed up the glass this morning. In the four hours between wake and work, he disinfected and rebandaged his knuckles, then cleaned every surface in his apartment. When all the movement reopened his cuts, he wrapped them again.

 _Rough-housing with Christopher_ , Buck wants to retort. Instead, he says, “Went too hard on the bag yesterday, you were right.”

Eddie doesn’t believe him, Buck can tell, but surprisingly, he doesn’t call him out. 

Chimney’s off today, for one of Maddie’s ultrasounds. Buck wonders if his parents ended up going with them, then tells himself he doesn’t care. The calls that come in are mundane - a fork in the microwave, a carbon monoxide leak in an unoccupied vacation home, a ponytail caught in a pool drain. 

As exhausted as therapy left him last night, today, Buck is keyed up, vibrating with nervous energy. In the truck, Eddie reaches across the aisle to still Buck’s jiggling leg enough times that finally, he commits to leaving his hand there, warm and heavy atop Buck’s knee. Bobby glances at them in the rearview mirror, says nothing.

In his bunk, sometime after midnight, Buck has a dream. Lights flashing red and blue, reflecting off rainwater pooled in cracked pavement. He’s in a car, but he’s also lying upside down. _How does that happen_ _?_ He can’t move. A hand reaches in through the broken window.

Hen jostles him awake. She doesn’t ask questions. They go upstairs and play _Street Fighter_ until the next call comes in. Buck has so much love for these people, the family he chose, it might just outgrow his flesh, tear him apart.

“You’re coming with me,” Eddie says, at the end of the day, as Buck slips on his jacket and closes his locker door.

“I am?”

“ _Yuuu-_ p,” Eddie says simply, letting the plosive pop. He’s leaning against the glass, sizing Buck up.

Buck doesn’t want to argue, he thinks. Or maybe he _really_ wants to argue. Unclear. He only just stopped feeling jittery, like, an hour ago. Still, he follows Eddie to his truck, hops in on the passenger side, and allows himself to be driven to a rundown looking gym. There aren’t any cars in the lot.

“Hope you brought a change of clothes,” Eddie says, putting the truck in park. 

“Uh, yeah. In my bag. What are we doing here? Isn’t this place closed?”

“Called in a favor from a friend. He’s still been coming by to take care of the equipment until they’re able to reopen, so it shouldn’t be too grody. I asked him to leave a key for us. We should have a few hours.”

 _What are you hoping to accomplish here_ _?_ Buck wants to ask. Also, _Is this the same friend who organized underground MMA fights and paid you to knock guys unconscious?_

They change together in the locker room. Buck keeps his back to Eddie the whole time, doesn’t dare turn around. It feels different here than at the station, more intimate, in spite of the gum stuck to the roofs of the lockers and suspicious stains on the linoleum floor.

Eddie helps him tape his hands, fits him with boxing gloves, and they step up into the ring - a legitimate ring, not a fence. Neither of them are wearing helmets. Maybe that’s stupid. They both agreed, nothing above the shoulders. 

_One, two_. They tap gloves. Jab, jab, block. Buck watches Eddie’s form, learning. He hops a few times on the balls of his feet. Jab, jab, swing. He doesn’t spar with a partner much, but Eddie’s going easy on him. Hanging back, silently asking Buck to lead.

“Shouldn’t move your feet so much,” Eddie says. 

"What do you mean?”

“When you approach, try not to twist your foot.”

Buck takes a step forward, with a right-handed jab, and Eddie nudges Buck’s right foot with his own, guiding it parallel to his arm. 

“When you twist in, you lose your balance. And it’s a bigger movement, so you lose time. Take little steps forward, keeping your foot aligned with your follow-through.” Buck does, and Eddie’s hands come up to protect his ribs. “Good,” he smiles.

They keep on like that, Eddie throwing out tips, letting Buck do all the work. It’s a slow, methodical way of sparring, not at all what Buck expected when he offered to let Eddie take a swing at him, all those months ago. 

“You don’t have to pull your punches, you know,” Eddie says, just as Buck’s starting to get frustrated. Eddie isn’t hitting back.

“You’re not hitting back.”

“This isn’t for me. It’s for you.”

“If I wanted a punching bag, I could just train at the 118,” Buck says. He’s barely broken a sweat, but his heart rate is elevated, like it’s preparing him for something.

“It’s different,” Eddie explains. “It feels different, when it’s another person.”

“You would know.”

“I would. I know what it feels like, to take the pain that’s inside you and give it to someone else.”

“And that’s what you want me to do?” Buck asks, incredulous. “To give you my pain?”

Eddie’s gaze is dark, intense. Buck can’t look away. “If that’s what helps.”

It’s such a gross misunderstanding, Buck wants to laugh. That’s the fundamental difference between them. There’s only ever been one person on whom Buck wants to inflict pain. 

“Hit me,” he says.

Eddie’s face falls, expression morphing into one of concern. “No.”

“Hit me,” Buck says again, tapping his chest, then his stomach. “I can take it.” And when Eddie shakes his head, he says, “What if that’s what helps?”

“...how’d you hurt your hand, Buck?”

The air in his lungs is expelled in something that resembles a laugh but lacks humor. “Punched a mirror. It wouldn’t hit back either.”

Eddie curses, raising his wrist to his mouth, unstrapping a glove with his teeth. “We’re done.”

Indignation flares in Buck. He rushes forward with a speed that has Eddie staggering backward, hitting the ropes. “Come on,” Buck says, towering over him, “you’ve been wanting to do it since the lawsuit.”

“Do what?” There’s confusion in his voice. Something else. 

“Take a swing.”

Eddie brings both hands up to Buck’s shoulders and pushes him back. _There you go_. “This was a mistake.”

He might pretend to be the collected one, the one who doesn’t let anything get to him, but it’s not that hard to light Eddie’s fuse. You just have to know where to wave the match. 

Buck knocks away his block and hits Eddie in the gut, right below his ribs. He doesn’t put much power behind it, just enough to startle the breath from him. He lifts his chin, challenging. _Come on, come on_.

Eddie crosses his arms. Buck quick jabs at his shoulder. Jabs again. Eddie doesn’t budge. The following punch goes high, catches him in the collarbone. Buck’s left arm swings in, less coordinated, and clobbers him in the ear. 

The next sensation Buck registers is Eddie’s leg sweeping his feet from under him, his back hitting the mat, Eddie’s full weight landing on top of him. Buck doesn’t mean to, but he starts to flail, first his legs, and then his arms. He’s a thrashing mess of limbs and fists, held together by the band of Eddie’s arms, the bracket of his knees. He pitches about, tries to roll them, but Eddie stays firm. The noises coming from Buck’s mouth are breathy, pitiful, increasing in volume until they turn into full-formed sobs. His chest is heaving, and Eddie’s head is right there, right over his heart.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he says, as Buck’s tears roll down his cheeks into curves of his ears. “You’re all right.”

“They-” Buck chokes. “They never _wanted_ me.”

“Who wouldn’t want you?”

And Buck tells him everything, to the extent of what he knows. 

He tells Eddie about the woman who fought off addiction all her life - cigarettes, booze, sex, pills. Who left home at the age of sixteen, to escape the expectations of her parents, the unachievable precedent set by her older sister. 

She kept running, from Philadelphia, to Nashville, to Mexico City. She would settle down until the money went dry, then move on to something new. It was hard to hold down a job when you showed up drunk at 9 AM, or tried to operate a forklift while high. There were boyfriends who would provide for a while, take the pressure off, make her feel good. She was happy until she wasn’t. Sober until she wasn’t. Ran until she couldn’t. 

That’s when she had a son. 

She moved back home for him, to be close to her sister, a reliable support system. Even though the unshakeable desire to leave was wriggling under her skin, an itch she couldn’t scratch, she tried her best for him - the baby she never asked for but loved in her own way. 

She found a steady job and kept it for a while. It was enough to afford food and rent. Childcare was a given. Her son spent more time in her sister’s big, drafty house than in her own condo. She showed up to work on time, and she quit the pills. She quit dating, afraid to bring strange men around her baby boy. But she couldn’t quit the alcohol, not entirely, and in the end, that’s what cost her, her life. 

“I was three years old,” Buck whispers. “I was hungry, and she was passed out somewhere. That’s what they said at least. Maddie...that’s what my parents told her.

“I must have stood up on a stool and tried to climb on the counter, looking for something to eat, but I fell. Broke my arm. I was probably screaming bloody murder, when she stumbled into the kitchen. She panicked, didn’t want to call an ambulance, didn’t want to get her sister involved. She took me to the car, strapped me in the back seat, and started driving.”

Eddie is slumped off to Buck’s side now, but he leaves an arm slung around Buck’s middle. His fingers run up and down the veins in Buck’s forearm. 

“It was raining. Really coming down. She missed the exit and tried to pull over. The car hydroplaned. We flipped a few times. The first responders showed up. I lived. She didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Buck.”

“I don't _remember her_ , Eddie.” That might be the most terrible, shameful part. He doesn’t remember his own mother.

“I can’t remember anything from that age,” Eddie reassures. “It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault.”

“They took me in,” Buck says. “But they never wanted another kid. I was just a burden, a reminder of the one flaw in their picture perfect family. Growing up, I always knew there was something wrong. I thought it was something wrong with me.”

If the people he called his parents loved him well, would he be so upset that they hid this from him? If they loved him well, would they have kept it a secret for so long? He thinks back to the little boy he was, and the criticisms they leveled, about his unsatisfactory grades or lack of motivation. It wasn’t exclusive to him - they were hard on Maddie too, but she was better than him at the things that mattered to their parents. 

He thinks about late night arguments witnessed and trips to the movie theater with Maddie, just to get out of the house. He thinks about all the times he snuck the wireless phone upstairs, to call Maddie when things got difficult. Most of the time, she would answer, but other times, she was busy with class or with friends. So as he grew older, he sought comfort in other ways.

Would that boy have been happier to know what he was missing? 

“What do you need, Buck?” Eddie asks. “Tell me what I can do.”

 _You’ve done enough_ , Buck thinks, but there is one thing that might make him feel better. “Christopher. I want to see Christopher.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, “okay,” and helps Buck to his feet.


	2. His Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i simply canNOT believe this chapter is longer than the first one. i never meant for this to happen, but i am glad that it is done in time for me to be proven wrong. lol
> 
> please be aware of SPOILERS for all episodes that have aired so far in season 4. 
> 
> i also want to provide a trigger warning for an instance of physical abuse that is described at the beginning of this chapter. if you would like to skip this scene, you can start at the line "They pull into Eddie’s driveway."

“It’s like...I’m seeing my childhood through a whole new lens.” 

Once the words start spilling out, Buck is helpless to contain them. Eddie is patient, silent but for the occasional affirmation that he’s still listening. 

“Freshman year of high school, I went to the Homecoming dance with this girl named Stacey. She was cute. She did color guard, always wore these big bows in her hair...but she only agreed to go with me because we were neighbors. Her family invited us over for backyard barbecues, the typical suburban stuff. Halfway through the dance, I find her behind the photo booth making out with _Jason Fleckman_ ,” Buck derides, maybe just a little bitter. That guy was a _dick_. 

“I’m all mopey about it, so my buddy Ryan suggests that we go back to his place with a group of his friends. His parents were out of town for Homecoming weekend, rookie mistake. One thing leads to another. The next thing I know, I’m tumbling in through the front door, completely wasted. To this day, I still don’t know how I got home.”

None of his friends had their licenses back then. Either Ryan’s older brother drove him, or he walked the seven miles to his house. Buck thinks he would remember that.

“I’m sloppy, can barely hold myself up. I end up tripping over my own shoes and knocking a picture frame off the wall. It’s my parents’ wedding photo. The lights come on upstairs. My mom walks down first and sees the mess on the floor.”

This is the moment he recalls most clearly. Before that day, he’d been on the receiving end of all Margaret Buckley’s negative emotions - frustration, annoyance, disappointment. He’d never seen her scared.

“She’s looking at me like…” he trails off, reliving it, the realization that whatever happened now he could never take back. “Like I’m an intruder. Like I’m holding her at gunpoint. She screams, and my dad comes flying down the stairs. I’d never seen him move so fast. He starts yelling at me. I mean, _really_ tearing into me. Normally, my dad’s a pretty level-headed guy, but he just _lost_ it. I’m blubbering like an idiot. Suddenly, his hand comes up, and he slaps me right across the mouth. He does it again, and now _I’m_ angry, so I punch him.”

All he saw was blood. There was so much of it, splattered on his dad’s face, the collar of his shirt. Staining the knuckles of Buck’s right hand. He could taste it in his mouth, from where his lip was split open. And it was other places too, places where it didn’t belong. Speckled across his mom’s slippers. It was the oddest thing.

“Then, I’m on the ground, and he’s kicking me until I throw up. He won’t stop until my mom pulls him off. She’s tiny...you’ll see if you ever meet her. It wasn’t easy.”

“Jesus,” Eddie swears, pulling up to a flashing red light. 

Buck comes back to the present day. He watches the color and emotion play out over Eddie’s face, as the traffic passes them by. His features seem almost alien in the red glow. Then they fade out. Darkness. Then flare. The sound of the cars outside only serves to magnify the quivering silence inside the cab of Eddie’s truck.

“When you show up at the hospital with a broken nose,” Buck says, “and your fourteen-year-old son has two cracked ribs, people are going to ask questions.”

“ _Christ_ , Buck.”

Someone honks behind them. It takes several more angry car horns to startle Eddie from whatever state he’s in. 

“My dad is a lawyer, so he knows how to talk and how to make people listen. He had plenty of ties to the community. In the end, they chalked it up to the dangers of underage drinking. Lessons learned.” Buck half-shrugs. It was a long time ago. “Anyway, it was the only time anything like that ever happened. A blip. Otherwise, he never laid a hand on me. Or Maddie. I swear, that was the worst of it.”

“He should have been arrested,” Eddie fumes. They’re almost home now, turning into Eddie’s neighborhood. 

“I wasn’t exactly innocent either,” Buck says. “Did you miss the part where I broke his nose?”

“You were a _kid_.”

Buck contemplates the memory and his purpose in recounting it. 

“Now that I know what I know about my Aunt Debra, my _mother_...it makes sense. They took a look at me, and in their eyes, I was becoming her. My dad wasn’t very affectionate, not even when we were young, but he loved my mom. He was protective of her. He didn’t want her to have to watch something like that again.”

They pull into Eddie’s driveway. Eddie puts the car in park, but neither of them move to unbuckle. Buck is hit with a wave of self-consciousness.

“I shouldn’t be laying all of this on you. You don’t need to hear all my family drama. I’m s-”

“Please don’t apologize,” Eddie says. His knuckles go white from where they’re braced over the steering wheel. Buck slides a hand across the console and eases each finger from its grip. They go inside.

Christopher is already in bed when they get in, but he’s still awake, so Buck gets to read him a chapter of a book his class is doing a report on, while Eddie and Pepa talk quietly in the hall. Christopher falls asleep, and Buck slides a palm over his curly hair, gently removes the glasses from his face and sets them on the bedside table. 

Eddie insists he stay the night, and Buck doesn’t argue, doesn’t feel like making awkward yet polite conversation with an Uber driver if Eddie isn’t willing to drive him home.

He makes use of Eddie’s shower, really taking the time to let the heat alleviate his sore muscles. After, Eddie lends him a pair of sweats that come just shy of covering Buck’s ankles. 

He’s just getting comfortable on the couch, head tilted back, eyes blinking slow, when Eddie walks over with a pillow and blankets. He looks at Buck, hesitant, like he’s weighing two options in his mind. Buck doesn’t want Eddie to make any grand gestures out of pity, like offering Buck his bed, so he grabs the stack from Eddie’s hands and says, “Good night.”

Eddie nods mutely and backs out of the room. 

* * *

The next morning, Buck feels...lighter. 

He’s not expecting it. Nothing has changed. The sting of betrayal is still there, with the knowledge that he’s been lied to all these years. He’s still in the process of mourning the relationship he never got to have with the woman who gave him life. He has so many questions for his parents that he’s not ready to ask, may never be ready to ask. 

When Buck left home, his mom told him that the world was a dangerous place and that he needed to protect himself because no one else would. At that time, he thought he was done listening to what his parents said, but still, he internalized those words. He closed himself off, locked parts of himself up, those parts that felt too much. It was too risky, to be known. To open yourself up for ridicule. And what was the point in pulling back your skin, revealing the vulnerable tissue, those intimate truths, only to get left behind? Or worse, ignored?

But Buck did get to share a piece of himself with Eddie. No one forced him to do it - it was his choice. He was open and honest about the darkest secrets of his past, both the one he just learned and the one he’s kept hidden. And no one even ran away. 

_This must be what it feels like_ , Buck thinks, _to really trust someone_. It’s something like a revelation. He’ll have to talk with Dr. Copeland about it.

Their first call of the day is an accident, a little old lady who crashed into a delivery van that stalled out in the middle of an intersection. The delivery driver walks away without a scratch on him, but the other car is trickier. 

Bobby calls for the jaws of life, and just as Buck is about to turn and retrieve the tool, Eddie beats him there. 

“I’ve got this,” Eddie says, hefting the jaws and their extension out of the compartment.

“Eddie,” Buck protests.

“I’ve got it,” he insists, then pauses, softens. “Just be ready to grab her.”

Hen hangs back with him, and they prep the stretcher together. Buck lifts up the body board, untangling one of the straps, while Hen glances between him and the scene of the accident.

“Everything okay between you two?” she asks.

“I think so,” says Buck. He doesn’t want to doubt the way he felt this morning. “Yeah, we’re good.”

It’s kind of miraculous, but aside from a deep gash on her forearm and some superficial wounds from broken glass, the older woman seems to be fine. They get her onto the board, transfer her to the stretcher, and then she’s off to the hospital for stitches. 

Back at the firehouse, Eddie pats Buck on the shoulder then goes to change for an early afternoon workout. Chim and Hen still haven’t returned from the hospital. Buck finds himself and Bobby up in the loft, assembling lunch.

“You know,” Bobby says, without looking up from the cilantro he’s chopping. “I care about you, Buck.”

Buck freezes where he’s stirring the pot of chili. The utensil slips from his fingers and sinks to the bottom of the pot. 

“Yeah, I know that, Bobby. Of course.”

“I can tell you’ve been working through some things,” Bobby continues. “I didn’t say anything because it hasn’t interfered with your work, and because I didn’t want to push you.” He sets the cilantro aside and rinses his knife in the sink. “I was waiting for you to come to me, if there was anything I could do to help. I just don’t want you to ever think I don’t see you, or that whatever you’re dealing with doesn’t matter to me. It does. You matter to me.”

When Buck told TK that his captain may as well be his dad, he was serious. Growing up, he never felt seen or understood. The only time his parents ever seemed to take an interest in his life was when he was doing something wrong. And after he spent years traveling, searching for a place he could truly feel whole, they stopped caring at all. He was a lost cause.

But Bobby was different. He was a father, multiple times over. He loved his children more than anything, cared for Harry and May like they were extensions of himself. He knew how to be stern, how to discipline, but also how to encourage. And no matter how much Buck pushed him away, Bobby never gave up on him. 

“Just you telling me that means a lot,” Buck says, trying his hardest not to tear up. “It’s been a long couple of days. There might be some difficult conversations I need to have, with my family. But after that, when I’m ready…”

“You know where to find me.” Bobby smiles, and Buck knows that expression. It’s the one Bobby uses when he’s proud. “Okay,” he says. “I think it’s time to eat.”

“I’ll go get the others,” Buck says, heading for the stairs. He sees Hen and Chimney, back from the hospital, carrying two cardboard trays of takeaway coffees. 

“Wait a second,” comes Bobby’s voice, low and confused. “Where did the spoon go?”

“Uhhh…”

* * *

Buck’s parents are in town. He hasn’t spoken to Maddie in three days, not since their disaster dinner and the secret that tilted his world on its axis. And just when Buck’s beginning to stabilize, that’s when the call comes in. He should have known it wouldn’t last. Don’t people always say that bad things come in threes?

It’s a five-alarm fire, all hands on deck. The accounts of how it started are mixed, but the general consensus is that it was a boiler explosion. Insufficient cooling led to the initial blast, and combined with a defunct sprinkler system, the whole factory has gone up in a raging inferno. 

“We believe seven were killed at the site of the explosion,” says the battalion chief of the 144, the first house to arrive on the scene. “The rest of the blast zone has been evacuated, but the flames are spreading fast. According to time records, we estimate that there were one hundred and seventy-two employees at the facility when the fire started.” 

One of his lieutenants brings over a clipboard and starts to go over the numbers. “Seven dead, eleven en route to the hospital in critical condition, forty-six in triage, and eighty alive and well. That leaves us with at least...twenty-eight workers unaccounted for.”

Buck is already sweating. They’re in full turnout gear, oxygen tanks strapped, axes in hand. He squints up at the factory, every window lit up like the world’s largest Jack-o’-lantern. The ceiling on the west-facing end of the building has already started to collapse in on itself. He lets out a whistle from inside his mask. 

“All right, no one goes in alone,” Bobby says. “We work in pairs. Han and Wilson. Diaz and Buckley. Montgomery and Gates. And Davis,” he motions to the probie, “you’re with me. Number one rule: don’t lose your buddy. Number two: if you do lose your buddy, you radio it in and report outside. The last thing we need when we have a missing firefighter is two missing firefighters. Is that clear?”

He gets a round of “Yes sirs” in response, and then the battalion chief is giving them the signal to move in.

The smoke gets denser the further they go, until Buck’s to the point where he can’t see ten feet in front of his face. Eddie is taking the lead, so Buck keeps his eyes affixed to the name on the back of his coat, trusting Eddie to guide them in the right direction. At the very least, not to walk them off the edge of a platform. They call out, and their voices are muffled by the oxygen masks, but Buck knows they would be suffocating without them.

The heat is oppressive, thick fabric of their coats giving the illusion that stripping down would be a relief. They climb up a set of stairs, have to be careful about what they touch, how long they leave their gloves on the railing. Aluminum is a hell of a heat conductor, but it’s cheaper than steel, and that’s what matters most to corporations, right? The bottom line? Buck imagines the soles of his boots welding to metal, the platform beneath his feet melting away. The frame wobbles beneath them with every step.

The factory itself is split into four quadrants, and those quadrants are divided into blocks A-H, like a prison, only the inmates are their employees. It does make it helpful for navigation though, so long as you can see the large letters painted on the wall.

Chimney’s voice comes in over the radio. “ _Cap, we found two survivors. One mobile, one unconscious_.”

Hen chimes in, her voice farther away. “ _Pulse is normal, breathing is labored. Nothing broken as far as I can tell, but probable concussion_.”

“ _We’re requesting a transfer board and additional aid in Quadrant 4, Block B_ ,” Chimney says.

Buck looks at the wall. The last time he had a good visual, they were passing through Block E. He and Eddie could go back, but they were also most likely the only group who made it this far east. Through his mask, Buck can tell that Eddie is thinking the same thing. 

“ _Roger that_ ,” Bobby says over the radio. “ _Davis and I are headed your way_.”

This building probably had terrible ventilation, judging by the lack of windows or notable fans, and the fact that Quadrant 4 didn’t have its own exit. They continue on, through the haze, until they come across the form of a woman, folded over with her head on her knees, collar of her coveralls pulled up over her nose.

Eddie kneels down next to her. “Ma’am, we’re here to help. Are you injured?” She shakes her head. “Can you stand?” And she does, barely needing Eddie’s hand to steady her. Her pant leg is caught where the stairs meet the railing, but they make quick work in tearing it away. 

“Thank you,” she says, words thick with smoke and phlegm. Buck nods.

“We’ve found someone, Cap. Coming back,” Eddie says before clipping his radio back to his coat. His next words are for Buck alone. “Stay close.”

“Right behind you,” Buck answers, ready to follow him anywhere, when something else catches his ear. So low and distant, he thinks his ears are playing tricks on him. 

Eddie and the woman are moving slowly. Still in eyesight, Buck takes a few steps back, scans the deck for any movement. There’s a dark shape huddled by what looks to be an oil drum, as if that isn’t an explosion waiting to happen.

“Eddie, hang on. I think I got another one.”

It’s a man, maybe late fifties. He’s sitting cross legged, slumped against the barrel. His eyes are closed, face smudged with soot.

“Excuse me, sir?” Buck says, and the man barely flinches. He shines his flashlight on the man’s face, lifts an eyelid, and is met with a slap on the wrist in return. So he’s awake. “What’s your name?”

“Oscar,” the man responds, coughing into his face mask. 

“Are you hurt, Oscar?”

“No.”

“ _You got him, Buck?_ ” Eddie asks. He shouldn’t be that far, but Buck can’t see him anymore.

“Yes, we're behind you, but you better keep moving. I think we might be surrounded by some...highly combustible materials.” Then, he turns back to Oscar. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

“No.”

“ _No?_ ” Buck repeats, flabbergasted. “Can you stand?”

“I’m not going.”

Buck gets two hands under the man’s armpits and tugs, but Oscar is fighting his grip, pushing at his abdomen. “You’re gonna die if we don’t get you out of here _now_.”

“I don’t care.”

“Eddie,” Buck radios, “I might need your help after all.”

He should think it odd when Eddie doesn’t immediately respond, but he’s a little distracted by the man struggling against him. “Please, I’m trying to help!”

“It was a boiler explosion, right?” Oscar asks. “In Quadrant 1? That’s what everyone was saying, when they started to evacuate.”

“Yes,” he says, not sure why it matters.

“That’s where my wife works,” Oscar says, and Buck feels his heart drop inside his chest. “Linda Ortero. Did they find her?”

“I-” Buck starts, knows it won’t do any good to tell him that seven were found dead at the scene of the explosion, with even more in critical condition. “I didn’t see any names. She might be just fine. We have lots of people in triage-”

“She’s dead,” Oscar said. “That’s right where she worked. And she never took a break, even though I told her not to worry about her boss. _Screw_ management. I know she was there, and now she’s dead.”

_God._ Buck feels like crying. His back is getting sore. “We won’t know anything for sure until we get you out of here, Oscar. You have to come with me.”

But before Oscar can disagree, the platform shifts beneath them, aluminum bending, cracking, and they fall. 

Buck lands on his feet. A sharp pain shoots up through his bad leg, causing his knees to buckle beneath him. He has to brace himself on all fours but is pretty sure nothing is broken.

Oscar isn’t so lucky. He’s lying on his left side, and his shoulder looks all wrong, too far forward. After Buck gets his bearings, he helps Oscar roll onto his back, gingerly, all the while Oscar is yelling, cursing.

“ _Buck,_ ” the radio crackles to life at his hip, where it’s come unclipped from his lapel. It’s Eddie. “ _Buck, where the hell are you?_ ”

Buck is focused on Oscar, on his pain. “Okay, your shoulder is definitely dislocated.” Buck feels up his forearm, his bicep, higher. Oscar groans when Buck touches his neck.

“ _Cap_ , _I lost Buck. Goddammit_.”

“ _Get outside, Diaz_ ,” Bobby says, “ _That’s an order. We’ll regroup and go back in._ ”

“ _He said he was right behind me_.”

“Hello?” Buck radios in. No response. “Hello?”

Bobby answers, “ _Buck? What’s your location?_ ”

“I think there must be something up with my radio.” Buck hits it against his palm a few times. “Can you hear me?”

“ _You’re cutting in and out_.”

“We fell,” Buck says. “The bridge collapsed. I’m fine, but the guy I’m with, his shoulder is dislocated. Pretty sure he has a fractured collar bone.”

“ _Heard you loud and clear. Can you see where you landed?_ ”

Buck looks around, looks up, can’t see the painted letter to indicate where they ended up. “Oscar, do you know what block this is?”

“Block G,” Oscar winces. 

“Quadrant 4, Block G, Cap.” Heat might rise, but the flames are spreading on the ground here, barrels catching fire around them. “Is there another exit? I don’t see how we’re going to get back the way we came, unless I can find a way to get us both up onto the platform.”

“ _No exit in Quadrant 4._ _Might be one northeast of you in Quadrant 2_.”

“Won’t work,” Oscar says. Buck keeps his finger on the button, so they can hear him. “Door’s locked. It requires a keycard to access.”

“ _I’m sending Montgomery and Gates your way. Stay put_.”

Oscar starts coughing, loud and violent, gagging. Buck helps him to sit up, and he rips off his face mask, like it’s holding the smoke in instead of keeping it out. 

“Put that back on,” Buck says, but Oscar refuses. He’s gasping, like he can barely breathe. Buck prays it’s not a punctured lung.

“I have asthma,” Oscar wheezes. “Inhaler...is in my locker.”

“Shit,” says Buck, turning his head in all directions. _Think, think!_ They’re trapped down here. The fire is spreading. Oscar can’t breathe. 

It’s foolish. So foolish, but Buck is desperate. He reaches up and unhooks his oxygen mask. 

“What are you doing?” Oscar asks, wide-eyed, as Buck places the mask over Oscar’s face, straps the tank behind his back.

“You need it more than I do,” Buck says. The air stings his eyes. Every word tastes like ash. “We gotta get you out of here.”

He only has one shot at this, but he’s pretty sure he could boost Oscar back up, hopefully without causing another section of the bridge to collapse. And then...he’ll just have to find something to stand on.

“Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll be right here.” Buck positions himself below the platform, crouching low. “You step into my hands. Lead with your right foot. Extend your right arm, and grab on to whatever you can. If you feel like it’s all going to come down, I’ll lower you. Just try not to move your left side.”

Oscar looks skeptical, but his breathing has eased. When Buck hoists him up, he scrambles for a few seconds, calling out when his chest touches the platform, at the pressure it puts on his clavicle. Buck grits his teeth, strains his muscles, trying to lift as much as he can, to give Oscar the height and momentum to continue forward instead of sliding back. 

“I’m up,” Oscar chokes. His right hand is clenched around one of the legs of the railing, which he uses to drag the rest of his torso in. The platform is holding. Buck heaves a sigh of relief. 

“Continue straight down that bridge,” he tells Oscar. “And when you get to a fork in the path, go left. You should run some guys from the 118, that’s where they’ll be coming from.”

“Maybe I can find something to pull you up.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Buck says. “My guys will find me. Just focus on getting out, and getting that shoulder taken care of.”

Oscar looks down but not at Buck, staring into the thick plumes of smoke, into nothing. “Thank you,” he says, and Buck nods. He can only hope that the man won’t give up again.

While he’s looking for a rope, a box, anything to stand on, Buck hears the call come in. 

“ _We’ve got him_ ,” says a voice that sounds like Montgomery. “ _Number twenty-eight. We’ve got them all._ ”

“ _What about Buck?_ ” and that’s Eddie. Buck would recognize his voice anywhere.

“ _Negative. Firefighter Buckley is not with him._ _Almost to the exit now._ ”

Another one of the barrels just caught on fire, and it stinks like diesel, burning slow. It won’t spread as fast as gasoline, but it’s even more likely to explode under the right temperature. This is bad. Buck has to find somewhere to take cover. 

“ _Buckley_.” That’s Bobby, and he doesn’t sound happy. “ _Buck, why would you give him your O2?"_ And then, “ _Hey, Diaz! Eddie, get back here! Hen, grab him._ ”

The next sound Buck hears doesn’t come from the radio. It’s a rumbling, the degradation of concrete, a tumble of rocks and the clank of metal equipment. It echoes through the factory, but the actual destruction doesn’t seem to extend to Buck’s immediate vicinity. Small miracles.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” Buck says, then tries again when all he receives is static. “Did you hear me? I’m sorry, I know it was dumb, but he has asthma."

No response. He’s alone. He’s alone, and the fire is bearing down on all sides, and the only thing left to wonder is whether he’ll be able to feel himself burning alive or pass out from smoke inhalation first.

“ _Buck_.”

It’s Bobby. Thank god. “Oh thank god, I thought my radio was busted. Bobby, I don’t know what to do. Even if you guys can hoist me up, this area could go up any second. They’re storing at least ten…maybe twenty barrels of diesel down here.”

“ _That’s not our only problem. Buck, the Quadrant 3 exit just collapsed._ ”

Of course it did. And maybe that wouldn’t be an issue, if the factory wasn’t so concerned about their employees sneaking out for illicit trips to the bathroom or smoke breaks. But Buck still has an axe. He has the tools on his belt. It’s not over. 

“Guess I’ll just have to make my own exit.”

“ _Listen, we’re trying to figure out if there’s anything we can do to override the lock between Quadrants 2 and 4. But we also got a copy of the building schematics_.”

Buck wonders if Michael had anything to do with that. “That’s...that’s great news, Bobby.”

The next voice he hears belongs to Hen. “ _Keep walking east toward Block H. Stick to the left wall if you can. There should be a vent._ ”

“Roger that.”

It takes him maybe two minutes, maybe ten - time is relative in a situation like this - but he does locate the vent that Hen was talking about. It might even be big enough for him to squeeze through, not that he wants to resort to that option. 

“Found it.”

“ _That vent should lead to the cafeteria_ ,” Hen says. “ _Once you get there, you’ll have multiple exits to choose from. Can you get the cover off? Is it big enough for you to crawl through?_ ”

“I have the right tools, and I think I could fit. But Hen.”

“ _Good. Because the locksmith thinks it will take at least an hour to override that door, and you don’t have that kind of time._ ”

God, it just keeps getting worse. The only good thing to come out of this is that his nightmares of the tsunami might finally have a strong contender, something terrifying enough to replace them. Buck can only hope these ones don’t include Christopher.

He gets to work, unscrewing the plate, bolts and nuts clattering to the floor. He stares ahead into the pitch black tunnel, the unknown, heart racing. He’s never been scared of the dark before. 

“Okay,” Buck says, taking out his spare flashlight and easing himself forward. “I’m going in.”

Every moment in the vent is agony. Its metal surface is blisteringly hot, and Buck is pressed against it from all sides - his back, shoulders, shins. He feels like he’s cooking, like a sausage in its casing. His eyes are leaking perpetual tears. He can’t _breathe_. 

And still, it’s not enough to distract him from the thoughts circling his head.

_He has an assignment coming up in school - a family tree. He’s looking through old photo albums in the attic. He brings one downstairs to his mother. She’s baking something, her apron dusted with flour._

_“Mom,” Buck asks, holding out a photo. It’s his mother, a little younger. Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail. She doesn’t wear it like that anymore. She’s holding a tennis racket, and her arm is slung around a younger girl who has the same blonde hair, the same blue eyes. “Who is this?”_

_She’s holding an egg now, and it cracks in her hand, bits of white shell landing on the table, in the batter, some stuck to her palm. The yolk plops into the bowl, runny whites dripping down her wrist, all the way to her elbow._

_“Mom?”_

_She goes to take a shower, batter forgotten. Later that night, his dad comes into his room. Buck knows better than to expect a bedtime story._

_“The woman in that photo was your mother’s sister.”_

_“I didn’t know she had a sister. Can I put her on my family tree?”_

_His father shakes his head. “She isn’t with us anymore_ ,” _and Buck is old enough to know what that means. “She had a lot of problems, and she caused your mother a lot of pain. We don’t want her to be in pain, do we?”_

_Buck shakes his head. He doesn’t bring up the photo again. The next day, its spot in the album is empty._

“Hen,” Buck says, trying to conceal the anguish in his voice, how close he is to breaking. “I’m at a fork.”

“ _Take a right._ ”

“There’s...two rights.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Well, there’s an up-right and a down-right,” he says, doesn’t know how else to describe them. Two vents stacked on top of each other. One is leading up, and Buck can’t see how steep it goes, isn’t sure if he can make the climb. The other has a downward slant but is level in comparison. 

“ _We don’t know, Buck. The map is unclear._ ”

“Flip a coin for me,” he jokes and then coughs right into the radio. He sounds awful. “50/50 shot. I’m just going to go down.”

The flashlight slides from his grasp and rolls down the tube, lighting the way. 

_He’s ten years old. Maddie is standing in his doorframe. She’s leaving for Penn State in the morning, and Buck’s been giving her the silent treatment for days._

_“Can I come in?” she asks, and he shrugs. She sits on the edge of his bed, leaning over. “What are you reading?”_

_He pulls up the corner of a National Geographic magazine, to hide the college brochure underneath. He wanted to understand what Maddie would be learning there, and what was so good about college that she would choose it over him._

_“Just...something about polar bears.”_

_Maddie nods, but Buck knows she’s always been more interested in people than animals. She wants to work in a hospital someday. Still, she’s way better at entertaining his hobbies and fascinations than mom and dad._

_“You know I’ll just be a phone call away.”_

_It’s not the same. Who will take him out for ice cream when their parents make him sad? Who will pick him up from school at the end of the day? He’ll have to start riding the bus again, and he knows his parents won’t be able to drive him home from the stop, not when he’s perfectly capable of walking home on his own, regardless of how many older boys live in their neighborhood. He’s still small for his age, an easy target._

_“Evan,” Maddie says. “I’ll miss you so much.”_

_“You won’t,” he can’t stop himself from saying. “You’ll have so much fun there! You’ll forget all about me.”_

_“I could never forget about you. I promise, I’ll call you every week. I’ll tell you all about it. And then, when I graduate and have a job, I’ll buy us a house, and we can live there together.” she says, extending her pinky. “Evan, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”_

Buck reaches another vent cover. This time, he uses his axe to break out from the inside. It’s hard to leverage in such a small space, but he manages, and then he’s falling to the ground. He looks around himself and laughs. Then he starts to cry.

“Is Chimney there with you?” he asks.

“ _I’m right here, Buck_ ,” Chimney radios back, sounding tense. “ _Where are you now?_ ”

Buck pauses...tries to find the words. “I want you to tell Maddie I’m sorry for not returning her calls.” He gives them time to absorb those words. “Tell her that I love her and that there’s nothing for me to forgive.”

“ _You’ll tell her yourself, Buck_.”

“I didn’t make it to the cafeteria,” he chokes. “I’m...outside the manager’s office.” He reads the nameplate on the door before kicking it down. 

“ _What do you see, Buck? Look around you. Maybe there’s another way.”_

Buck is on his knees on this thick, plush carpet, looking at a painting on the wall, something abstract and expensive. All of it is untouched by fire. He hoists himself up onto a leather couch, observes the degrees and awards hung above the manager’s desk. The golf clubs and putting green in the corner. An espresso machine. He thinks about the manager, luxuriating in this fancy office, while his employees toil away, declining breaks for fear of retribution.

And then, suddenly, he’s grateful. Because what does every fancy office need?

_A view_.

The glass shatters at the force of his axe, and the remnants tumble to the pavement outside. Buck climbs over the window box, full of peonies that have already shriveled up from the heat. His legs are still working, still moving. He’s _alive_. 

He rounds the corner of the building, toward the flashing lights, the ladder trucks and police cars. When he sees the members of the 118, he wants to collapse, but waits until Bobby’s arms are around him.

“I’ve got you,” Bobby says, holding him close, even as Buck coughs against his shoulder. “You’re okay.”

“ _Bobby_ ,” Buck croaks. His hair is plastered to his head from the sweat. His skin is singed red in some places, covered with soot in others. Saliva is hanging from his panting mouth. He must look like a mess. 

And then there’s Eddie, standing behind Bobby’s shoulder, tear tracks notable on his dirty cheeks, looking like the best thing Buck has ever seen. Buck wants to reach out, to put his hands on him, anywhere. 

“I can’t believe you,” Eddie says, shaking. “You said you were _behind me_. Why would you-”

“Eddie,” Buck says softly, his voice feels so raw and tight, like he’s talking through a straw. “Please don’t be mad.”

Eddie stops, face twisted in furor but also sorrow. His mouth is open, like there’s so much he wants to say, but knows all of it will be laced with exasperation. 

“God _damn_ it,” is all he can get out before he’s whipping around in the direction of the truck, stalking away with fists trembling at his sides.

“Chim,” says Bobby.

“On it, Cap,” Chimney replies, set to follow Eddie, but not before he presses a kiss to Buck’s head, and a reminder. “Tell her yourself.”

* * *

They want to keep him in the hospital for twenty-four hours, to monitor for any cardiovascular symptoms from the smoke inhalation, but Buck is able to talk them down to twenty. No one wants to discharge him at midnight anyway. 

He’s only allowed one visitor - COVID restrictions - and it has to be a family member, so Buck gives them Maddie’s name. They run a few tests, and he sleeps for a while, then wakes up with fingers running through his hair. 

“Maddie?” he asks, without opening his eyes.

“I’m here,” she says. “I’m right here.”

He blinks up at her, beautiful yet sad. That’s always been Maddie. His sister. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, and watches Maddie’s lips curl down, her chin dimple.

“ _I_ should be the one saying that,” she sobs. He reaches for her hand, and she meets him halfway. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I need you to know, I don’t blame you for any of it, Maddie. I’m not angry anymore...not at you. I love you.”

“I love you too, Buck.”

Maddie helps him up to shower, and then he changes into real clothes. She must have swung by his apartment to grab them. He’s feeling more comfortable, more like himself, when Maddie says-

“I want to tell you about her.” 

She waits for Buck to consent before she continues.

“I was eight years old when you were born. We visited you at the hospital. I was still just getting to know my Aunt Debra, but she was already one of my favorite people. 

“She was a lot younger than Mom and a lot more fun. She played Dutch Blitz with me. She painted her nails in bright colors. She had _tattoos_. She held a job as a receptionist at a dental office while she was pregnant, and she would bring me these little trinkets - pens and stickers and sugar-free gum. I wanted to be just like her.”

“The way you describe her, it’s hard to believe that she and Mom are related,” Buck says, and Maddie laughs. 

“My favorite thing she brought me was you though.” Maddie smiles. “You were wrinkly and bald, but you always had those big blue eyes. I wanted to babysit you all the time, and after her maternity leave was up, we did. I learned to change your diapers, and I didn’t even mind because you always made this giggling noise when I tickled your toes.

“Aunt Debra worked a lot, usually two or three jobs at a time, but she loved to spend time with you. Even when she was tired after a long shift. She would always sit in that rocker and read to you or sing to you. She used to sing you that song from _Dumbo_. You know the one, where the mama elephant is cradling her baby?”

Buck always loved that movie, as a kid.

“It was _awful_ , Buck, when she died. I refused to come out of my room for a week, and then you were living with us, and you were always asking about her. Asking about when you would be able to go home,” her voice breaks on the last word. “Mom and Dad made me swear not to tell you. I was eleven, and they wouldn’t let me talk about her at all, like she never existed.”

“That’s terrible, Maddie.”

“And then I felt even guiltier as I grew older. Because I loved having you in that house with me. I loved spending time with you. I loved being your sister, and I wouldn’t have traded that for anything. I was so _selfish_.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Buck says, means it. “You think I wasn’t selfish? I hated it, when you went away to college. I thought about all the ways I could convince you to come back. I thought about sneaking out in the middle of the night and taking a bus to see you. You were the one good thing about my childhood, Maddie. I’ll never regret being your little brother.”

Soon enough, the nurse comes in with discharge paperwork, and then they’re free to go. 

“I have to warn you,” Maddie says. “Mom and Dad are in the car.”

“ _What?_ It’s been _hours_.”

“They weren’t allowed to wait in the lobby. They insisted.”

Buck finds them in the parking lot, but Chimney is there, Hen and Bobby too. And Eddie. They’re standing in the empty space between Chimney’s car and Eddie’s truck, facing each other, as if squaring up for a fight. 

“All this stress isn’t good for the baby,” is the first thing his mother says to him.

“Okay…” Buck says. “But look at me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Margaret says. “You’re seeing a therapist. You’re having nightmares.”

“Whoa, who said anything about nightmares?”

“This isn’t a good job for you, Evan. You’re too reckless. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I’m not _her_ , Mom. I don’t have to remember her to know that much. And I _can’t_ remember. You made sure of that.”

“How dare you speak to your mother that way,” Phillip warns, always clear about his allegiances, but Buck ignores him. 

“You told me to protect myself, and that’s what I did, for _years_. I didn’t let anybody in,” he says. “But now I have people who care about me, who have my back. I might not always make the right decisions, but I have friends who will call me on my bullshit. Or give me advice. Or support me even when I make the wrong call.” 

“But what about when you settle down?” Margaret asks. “What then? You want to be out there doing something so dangerous, when you have a family to care for?”

“First of all, I am nowhere near getting married or having kids. And even if I was, Chimney’s standing right here. Bobby and Hen and Eddie, they have kids too. Families.”

“You’re not like everyone else, Evan,” Phillip says. “You’ve always been soft. You’re easily influenced. You don’t know when to quit. You’ll get yourself killed. Is that what you want? To abandon your children, just like that woman?”

_That woman?_ Buck wants to yell. _Is that all she ever was to you? You can’t pretend her death was some tragedy and then curse her in the next breath. You can’t have it both ways._

But Buck doesn’t speak at all, because Eddie is there at his shoulder, and he’s saying it all for him.

“That woman was his _mother_ , and he deserved to know the truth about her. Buck is an incredible person. He’s selfless with his time and with his heart. He’s done so much for all of us, so much for me and Christopher. He’s _great_ with kids, and it’s amazing because he clearly wasn’t raised with the best example of what it means to be a good parent. He’s a better father to my son than you _ever_ were to him.”

Buck stands there in stunned silence, until his father’s voice claps him in the ear. “So you’re playing house with some _man_ now?”

Eddie lurches forward, and Hen and Chim grab him at the same time. 

“Cool off, Diaz,” Bobby says, but he looks angry too. “I think we should all call it a night. Let’s make sure Buck gets home to rest.”

“I’ll take him,” Eddie says, backing off, shaking out his shoulders. 

Buck has just one more thing to say. “For the first time maybe ever, I’m feeling really _good_ about my life. I want you both to be happy for me.” Then he follows Eddie to his truck. 

* * *

Eddie doesn’t take Buck back to his apartment, but drives to his house instead. When they arrive, all the lights are off.

“Where’s Christopher?” Buck asks.

“With Abuela tonight.”

They sit side by side on Eddie’s couch. No video games, no television, no beer. Just the sound Buck and Eddie’s breath, synchronized, the impression of Eddie’s weight on the couch. His thigh mere inches away. 

“You didn’t have to…” Buck says.

“I did.”

“They’re always like that. I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t make it okay.”

Buck’s heart squeezes. He gets a fluttering sensation behind his breastbone, like butterflies, but in his chest. “I appreciate that. But those things you said.”

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Eddie says. “But I meant it. Every word of it.”

Buck turns his head, and Eddie’s already looking at him, up through his lashes. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, pulse pounding in his ears. He can barely hear his own voice. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

Eddie leans forward until their thighs are touching. Their shoulders. And then he kisses him. 

It’s soft, where Eddie’s nose aligns against Buck’s own. Warm, where Eddie sighs into his mouth. Smooth, where the inside of Eddie’s lips caress his. He kisses to the corner of Buck’s mouth, his cheek, line of his jaw.

“Something like that?” Eddie asks. And Buck squeaks out an affirmative. “Then it’s not stupid.”

They meet again in the middle, a little more urgent. Eddie opens his mouth, and Buck groans, taking, taking. Eddie’s fingers curl into the hair at the nape of Buck’s neck and squeeze. Buck shivers at the pull of them, his own hands sliding under Eddie’s arms, behind his back, blunt nails digging into the ridges of Eddie’s spine.

Buck loves Eddie, and what’s more, he trusts him. He trusts that as he falls apart, Eddie will pick up the pieces. And cherish them.

They move with unspoken but mutual direction, toward Eddie’s bedroom, never breaking contact, even as they stumble against the wall, the door, the bed. 

Buck pushes Eddie gently to his back, then lowers himself down over, every part of them oriented to each other, legs and stomachs and hearts. Eddie reaches behind himself to turn on the lamp, and Buck is a little dumbstruck by what he sees. Eddie beneath him, lips reddened, pupils large, chest rising and falling. They realize both the joy and strangeness of their situation at the same time. 

Buck watches the grin spread across Eddie’s face, a little bit disbelief and a larger part desire, but all love, and Buck knows the smile is mirrored with his own. He laughs into Eddie’s mouth as Eddie flips them over, keeps laughing when they hit the floor.

* * *

There are voices Buck recognizes, coming from a place far away, but getting closer. He’s too tired to think about them. Too warm, weighed down by the arm slung over his middle. Then, the warmth gasps.

“ _Buck,_ ” it hisses, rolling out of bed. Oh, Buck knows that voice. 

Eddie pulls the covers from his head, and Buck rolls into his pillow. “Shhh, too loud.” Eddie yanks that away too.

“What?” he whines, opening his eyes. 

Buck realizes now that he is shirtless, just a pair of borrowed sweatpants slung low on his hips. Eddie is wearing even less. Grey briefs and nothing else. Buck’s gaze freezes where Eddie’s ass meets upper thigh.

Eddie snaps his fingers in front of Buck’s face. “Abuela and Christopher are here.”

Oh? Oh! “Do you want me to leave?” Buck asks. 

He watches Eddie’s face move, a complication of emotions. Eddie looks at Buck with recognition, like he’s lived inside this moment before. Then he decides. “No.”

Buck watches Eddie change because no one can stop him now. It’s not sexy so much as frantic, but Buck enjoys that too. He’s in love. Eddie reaches into his drawer and pulls out another t-shirt. “Just put this on.”

Buck draws his arms up through the sleeves. When he pulls his head through the collar, Eddie is right there, pressing a kiss to his lips, fingers dancing behind Buck’s ears. 

“I want you to stay,” he says. So Buck does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact - right after i wrote the scene with the cracked egg, i allowed two eggs to roll right off my kitchen counter and splatter on the floor. as it turns out, i am a psychic who brings only misfortune.

**Author's Note:**

> part 2 will be coming sometime between thursday and sunday, depending on how quickly it gets written. no, i won't mention the eddie/bobby conversation from the eddie promo because it just made me more nervous. i'll see you all in therapy.


End file.
